Skinhead Read online

  Once they reached Victoria Station, the mob were unanimous about what they intended doing in the seaside town. The proceeds of a small robbery they had pulled the week before would provide their fares, meals and booze. And, when they ran out of amusements, they would seek out a few scared hippies and do them.

  The first train was The Pullman and Joe gave his orders: “No bleedin’ trouble on this train, mates. We wanna get to Brighton – not arrested.”

  As they strolled along the platform, the guard eyed them suspiciously. He didn’t enjoy having yobbos on his train; no more than the nervous passengers watching from carriage windows wanted them in their compartments. But Joe wasn’t interested in annoying innocent travellers today. He was thinking about what would happen once they cornered their hippie enemies and enjoyed the prospect of putting his boot in.

  “’Ere’s one...” Billy pointed at a carriage where several teenage girls sat watching their progress along the cold-swept platform.

  “Christ, can’t you think of sumfin’ besides girls?”

  Billy shrugged, and waved to the stern-faced females. Joe wasn’t usually so slow at taking opportunities. If he stayed in this mood they’d have a lousy day by the sea.

  It wasn’t often Joe felt compelled to explain his edicts, but he did, loudly: “We get in there an’ there’ll be bovver for sure. I don’t want anyfing to stop us doin’ them hippies.” He smiled, shaking himself like some huge bear about to itch against a benevolent tree-trunk. “After yesterday we’re not goin’ to have our sport spoilt.”

  Billy grinned happily. He, too, wanted to gain a measure of sweat revenge for the beating he’d taken trying to make Mary. But he also wanted a bird. The long hours contemplating how it would be with Mary had given him the urge. And all the boots, fists and broken bottles that had found their target in his flesh hadn’t dulled his massive desire. If only Joe would let them combine pleasures...

  “Ain’t we gonna chat-up any birds, Joe?”

  Joe shrugged, throwing open a carriage door. “Mebbe after the aggro, Don. Get in...” He stalked down the carriage, taking a window seat. One elderly man at the far end of the carriage glanced fearfully over his Sunday newspaper and hurriedly buried his nose in the latest scandal. Like so many people he figured that what he couldn’t see wouldn’t come to lay grief on his doorstep.

  “’Ow much we got, Joe?”

  Billy rubbed his hands together, waiting for Joe’s reply to Tony’s pertinent question. He hoped it would be enough for them to make steak and chips – not the old standard fish with.

  “Thirty knicker.”

  “Cor, we bleedin’ well nicked over sixty-five!”

  “Yeah,” Joe said softly. “An’ I divvied out some.”

  Tony dropped his gaze and sulked in his corner. He didn’t dare query Joe further. He knew – as did the others – that Joe had taken a larger slice than any of them. He always did. As their leader he apportioned the spoils and, with deference to his superior position, allotted himself the general’s ration.

  Slowly at first, then gathering speed, the train moved out of the station, the crumbling warehouses and dilapidated homes along the track like sickness on the face of London. Joe didn’t see the horror of railway surroundings. Nothing here was worse than his own neighbourhood; nothing dirtier than Plaistow or Poplar. Although he had ambitions to rise above the filth of working class districts, he had accepted conditions with the fatalism of those born to squalor. It was one thing to believe in a West End flat, a Mayfair bird, a gleaming car and new gear every day of the week, but the brainwashed mind could not see further than personal betterment. It couldn’t realise that all of this slumland must be cleared and kept free from decay. It couldn’t accept that people had to be educated to have pride in their surroundings, to make their district forever clean and fresh and on a par with other high-class areas.

  As the train sped past a huge new office building near the Thames with its huge red sign announcing space to let, Joe felt a tremor of annoyance. From the top floor of that block, one would see across the river to the Houses of Parliament, down river, up river, see all the landmarks of the city. He had a fair idea what a flat there would cost always providing the landlords would rent to a private individual instead of a large company.

  That was the closest Joe came to speculating on his future residential ambitions that day. For the most of the fast journey he allowed himself the luxury of imagining how they – the mob – would deal with his hated hippies.

  Basically, Joe had a feeling for violence. It was an integral part of his make-up. Some do-gooders trying to explain his attachment to the skinhead cult would, no doubt, stress his environmental background, his childhood fighting for every scrap of education and clothing. They would point with undisguised delight to his father’s tough profession, to the East End as a breeding-ground of crime and the conditions under which its inhabitants grew up. They would gleefully assign all manner of reasons for Joe being what he was without ever touching on the most important factor of all – his character weakness for brutality. It wasn’t something that had grown inside him because of surrounding blights. It was him; he was one of the incurables – one of those born to be hard, mean, savage. Nothing had made Joe this. He had been born to accept crime and the ravaging of that which he found objectionable. Joe Hawkins was one of nature’s misfits; one of her habitual criminals. And all the soft-soap and kindness would not alter him. Not one iota.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Jesus, Don – you’re a stupid bastard!”

  Don laughed, dug his hands deeper into his pockets. It was freezing cold along the front and the wind-whipped waves formed salting white-caps as far into the Channel as the eye could see. “Relax, Joe-mate... they didn’t get us, did they?”

  Joe growled into his sheepskin coat, feeling his face getting numb as the wind continued to assault them. “They bleedin’ nearly did, you bastard! If it hadn’t been for Billy...”

  Billy turned his back on the spray blowing over the sea-wall, hearing the incessant rattle of pebbles under the smashing waves. It had been bloody close, he thought walking backwards. They’d slashed the seats and bust a carriage window just as the train was entering Brighton Station but Don had to act the fool and throw light-bulbs onto the platform. If he hadn’t run to the copper and made a complaint about a mythical member of the Hell’s Angel’s mob going for him, Don would be freezing his arse inside a Brighton cell now. “Fuckin’ fool!” Billy said as the wind tore his words away and rushed them down to the marina.

  “Let’s eat, Joe,” Tony voiced, glaring at the angry sea. “I’m starvin’.”

  Joe nodded. He was hungry too. And he didn’t much fancy being blown to bits any longer. They’d seen the bleedin’ sea and, for his money, Brighton could keep it. He didn’t go much on sand and sea and sky. He preferred the city with its layers of smoke blotting out the sun, with its teeming millions struggling for a mere existence, for the aggro and for the clash of wills.

  The caff catered to early holiday-makers but on a cold, lonely Sunday it was practically empty. The menu didn’t offer much in the way of good eating but Joe wasn’t one to know the intricacies of Cordon Bleu cuisine. His idea of a slap-up meal consisted of chips with everything and a steak could be raw, medium or burnt to a crisp for all the difference it made to his cast-iron stomach. He had no real sense of taste – a result of years spent eating his mother’s cooking. In the Hawkins’ household a chop tasted like fish and fish tasted like rubberized shoe leather. Nobody would ever honour Mrs. Hawkins for her cooking. Nobody!

  “Listen sonny... I don’t want any trouble, hear me?”

  Joe grinned at the swarthy, heavy-set man behind the counter. He had a feeling the out-of-sight right hand was lovingly caressing a truncheon. He didn’t want trouble then either. Especially not with a typical East Ender operating a profitable Brighton caff.

  “Isn’t it the shits!” Joe said in a low voice, “’ere we are in dear old Brighton an�
�� he slaps a law on us already!” He laughed, motioned for the mob to take their seats, bending forward and telling the owner in a confidential whisper: “Mate we’re famished – we wanna eat... okay?”

  “Just remember,” the other growled, “no trouble. You pays when I bring the nosh!”

  “Suit yourself, chief, “Joe replied in his most casual manner. “Wot’s your tip for the day?”

  “Ham san’ich.”

  “Christ, I said we’re bleedin’ famished...”

  “You got money?” the owner asked suspiciously remembering other skinheads and other non-payment of bills.

  Joe deliberately withdrew his cash, flicked the fivers to prove his intention to pay. Inside, he boiled. It would serve the bastard right if they done his place and didn’t pay. But he controlled his emotions and forced a smile. “’Ow’s that?”

  “Right... What’s the order?”

  As Joe took his seat, Billy leant forward and snarled, “Let’s do the bastard when he brings the nosh.”

  Joe considered the request, but brushed it aside. His plans were swiftly formulating. First, they’d find a few hippies and kick the shit out of them. Secondly they’d run riot in whatever amusement arcades were open. Thirdly, they’d come back here and bust the caff’s windows and, if they could, break every stick of furniture in the rotten place. Maybe they’d even have the satisfaction of doing the owner. That would make the current backing down worthwhile.

  “No, Billy, “he said finally. “Save ’im for later.” He winked, letting them all know he – their supreme commander – had a definite scheme afoot.

  “Let’s have the most expensive nosh, eh?” Don said with a sly grin. “We can always get our money back... later!”

  Joe nodded, wondering if his plan would let them rob the geezer. He doubted if an East Ender would leave his spare cash lying around where yobbos could find it. He wouldn’t... and he placed the owner in this category.

  Without exception, the mob followed Joe’s selection from the hand-scrawled menu: soup, minute steak with boiled potatoes and peas, cheese and biscuits, tea.

  None of them complained when the soup arrived lukewarm. Nobody noticed that the minute steak was tough, sinewy, an unfrozen offering to nauseate a gourmet, and that the potatoes were a day old and reheated. None of them paid any attention to the tinned peas and the way they came up in solid balls. And even the cheese passed their non-inspection although it smelt to high heaven and had mould on the edges. As for the biscuits the least said about them the better.

  Only one item on the menu passed for what it said – the tea. It was hot, fresh, sweet.

  “Like it?” the owner asked with a secret smile as Joe again withdrew his cash.

  “Not bad!”

  Money exchanged hands – an exorbitant amount duly paid without a query.

  As the mob trooped from the caff, the owner laughed and muttered to himself, “Bleedin’ fools!” Then leaving just enough change in the till, he folded his notes, placed them in a paper bag, put that inside an open packet of Tate & Lyle sugar and left it in plain sight on a shelf. Ringing up NO SALE he removed five shillings, put in a seven-sided atrocity which decimalisation had decided to thrust upon an unwilling public and helped himself to a packet of Everest cigarettes. As he lit one he watched the mob stagger down the front, the wind in their faces. “Bleedin’ fools!” he said aloud and blew a smoke ring with expert ease...

  “I feel full up,” Don bucked the steadily rising gale, the remains of his meal resting like lead balls in his stomach.

  “Let’s have a few beers, Joe,” Tony suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s an idea,” Billy agreed.

  Joe cut around the bus depot and past the dolphin statue. He knew a large pub where they could get served without the fuzz noticing they were in town. It made him feel good to exhibit himself in a conspicuous place like the pub he had in mind. Almost like those Western movies he avidly watched on the goggle-box. He pictured himself as the villain going into a strange town, ready to meet any challenge, prepared to face up to the marshall.

  “Christ!” Billy examined the pub’s interior with awe. He was used to East End establishments with their smaller bars, their dinginess. He hadn’t expected Joe to select such an opulent tavern. He had never before seen such grandeur – unless one counted the time his school paid a visit to Hampton Court Palace. He had been seven then and his memory could still conjure up images of the vastness of those rooms, the armorial bearings and the instruments of torment with which the ancient men attacked their foes.

  Joe stalked to the bar giving the snooty barmaid a wink and getting a haughty look in return. He knew the score – his kind were unwelcome in these hallowed precincts. But he didn’t flinch. He ordered beer, flashed a fiver, and waited for the slow service which said more than any retort could have.

  A log fire burned in a huge hearth, expensively dressed people chatted quietly and, across the room two young birds got their heads together and their legs further apart as Joe’s mob swilled their beer.

  “l can see ’er knickers,” Don enthused.

  “Bloody hell... ’er mate ain’t wearin’ any.” Billy almost jumped from his seat, only to have Joe restrain him.

  “Not in ’ere,” Joe snarled.

  “But, Joe... she’s...”

  “I said...”

  “Okay, Joe!” Billy controlled himself, refusing to take his eyes from the delightful view of the girl with her thighs spread wide apart.

  “I’d like to start a fight in ’ere,” Don remarked with relish.

  “Me too,” Tony chipped in.

  “I’d like to fuck that bird!” Billy said eagerly.

  Joe scowled, finished his brew. “Let’s find the hippies.”

  “Naw, let’s have another...”

  Joe turned on Billy. “I said – let’s go!”

  Billy drank his beer, wiped his lips, leered at the girls and followed Joe from the pub. On the street he glanced around. “There ain’t goin’ to be hippies out in this.”

  “If we walk towards Roedean we’ll find ’em,” Joe said with authority.

  Don laughed to himself and finally said, “My old man used to tell us about the time he was stationed down ’ere durin’ the war. They was in Roedean an’ they ’ad a notice on the gates sayin’ RING FOR A MISTRESS...” His laughter erupted anew; a lonely laugh the others failed to appreciate. Perhaps it was the way he told it.

  “I’d like a bleedin’ mistress now,” Billy said hopefully.

  “Me too,” Tony quipped. He glanced at Joe. “’Ow about it, mate. Can’t we find a coupla birds an’...”

  “After we find a few hippies!” Joe remarked adamantly.

  He was consumed with hatred and anxiety. What if, he found himself thinking, they didn’t locate any hippies? What would they do then? His leadership depended on getting the boot in.

  They walked along the spray-swept front, past the marina, the motor museum, the rows of cold, unfriendly houses perched high on the hill. Hotel signs glowed faintly in the greying sky, offering some warmth and companionship behind their bland facades.

  Out to sea, tossed as a cork in a violently disturbed bathtub, a small coastal vessel battled the frothed waves. When the breakers swooshed up the shore, row-boats rattled and shifted at anchor. And, always, there was the restless sound of stone under water as the sea rearranged the composition of the beach once again.

  “It’s bloody cold!” Billy wasn’t thinking of birds now. The biting wind had long since whipped away desire, leaving him wishing for the warmth of a log fire and the sanctuary of a pub.

  Up ahead, where their paths rose to meet the road to Hastings, a small group of figures detached themselves from a shelter and started walking down to the beach. Joe stiffened. Even at that distance he could see long hair caught in the freezing wind and could make out gear that wasn’t worn by ordinary people.

  He grunted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Hairies!” he snarled. />
  Billy yelled and felt for his tool. The coldness of metal did not shock him; his senses were attuned to violence and the thought of laying into a bleedin’ hippie made him feel suddenly hot.

  Don and Tony too, had withdrawn their crude clubs – Don’s had once been an axe handle while Tony believed in using a tyre iron cut down to right size in Ford’s workshops.

  Joe didn’t have a weapon. He’d come to Brighton for the pleasure of kicking hippies – not bustin’ their skulls with a tool. His boots were weaponry enough and, anyway, he wanted the satisfaction of feeling his toe sink in deep.

  “Don’t let ’em see we’re looking for aggro,” Joe warned. “Let it be a surprise, eh?”

  From their vantage point, the five hippies saw the others approaching. They were cold, hungry, unafraid. They didn’t consider an attack on a day like this as even a remote possibility. That they had roughed it for the last week didn’t mean their natural enemies – skinheads and Hell’s Angels – would brave the bitter weather and venture to Brighton’s storm-tossed icebox.

  It was afternoon and the last meal they’d been able to cadge had been in Eastbourne the previous night. They had some pot left, some cigarettes and tomorrow, Monday, the Social Security office would give them enough to take care of immediate problems.

  “Turn back, Roger...”

  Roger was a tall man with flowing dark hair and a small beard. His mandarin moustache had never quite succeeded in becoming Chinese and formed a wispy coating above firm lips. “What’s wrong, Cherry?” he asked, unable to comprehend her.

  “I don’t like the look of those boys,” The girl replied, fear suddenly tugging at her heart. She was only eighteen but she had had enough experience fighting off those who wished to destroy them. She had taken part in practically every demonstration in Grosvenor Square, been arrested sixteen times for obstruction or disturbing the peace and, always without exception, had the Welfare State pay her fine. She had had two abortions on the State, been in receipt of a student grant until she tired of her fellow students using her as a physical oil-change. Since meeting Roger she had wandered from one end of the country to another, sleeping rough, eating when they could, stealing a little here and there to pay for pot and, when they found a sympathetic Civil Servant, begging a pitiful sum from the tax payers to let them continue the anti-social life they insisted was right.